You can checkout any time you like
by Rinne
Summary: While trying to be a good samaritan, Don gets abducted. Will he ever make his way back home? Set post season 6, Don/Robin, Charlie/Amita. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Title: You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave  
Genre: Het  
Pairings: Don/Robin, Charlie/Amita, past Don/Terry, mentions of David/OFC, Ian/Nikki  
Characters: Don, Robin, Colby, Alan, Charlie, Amita, Liz, Nikki, Gary Walker, Ian Edgerton  
Spoilers: Entire series till the end of season 6. Set after the end of season 6.  
Warnings: Violence, sexual themes, non-explicit sexual assault (off-screen non-consensual m/m touching, some thoughts/discussion/worry at the possibility of sexual assault), some coarse language  
Prompt: hurt_don Clue Challenge 17: What: Baseball Bat Where: LA, and Alphabet meme: T is for Taken for ALEO.  
Word count: 20,000 words total (3252 this part)  
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.  
A/N: Written as a present for ariestaurus Title from the song "Hotel California" by the Eagles. Thank you to krazykitkat for reading through as I was writing and doing some edits, and pixie_on_acid for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Summary: While trying to be a good samaritan, Don gets abducted. Will he ever make his way back home?

* * *

Chapter 1

If there was one thing to come out of this, it was that Don knew he'd never stop to help someone who'd broken down again. It was a sad commentary on life that as a well-trained FBI agent he now had come to that conclusion.

Of course, being able to put that resolution into practice relied on two things.

One, that he lived long enough to be able to apply it, and/or two, that he escaped.

And he had no idea what the odds of either were.

* * *

It had been the first opportunity in a while that Don'd had to just take off; to grab his motorcycle and ride all that he wanted. Robin had understood the need, so she'd kissed him and pushed him out the door, telling him that she had some movies to catch up on. Ones that he wouldn't want to watch.

He'd gradually felt the tension in his gut uncoil as the hours passed on the road. He wasn't heading to any particular destination, just seeing where the roads and whim took him, releasing more of his stress at each mile. The day was starting to cool as he contemplated heading back to LA, cloud rolling in dimming the light and reducing the bite of the sun.

The roads he'd chosen had been virtually deserted, which had suited his mood perfectly. It was why, when he saw the broken down car, he decided to stop and see whether the driver needed any help. Cell reception could be a crapshoot out here, making it hard for the driver to call for assistance. Don knew that he'd hate to be stuck there without any way to get help.

Don pulled in behind the car, staying on his bike for a minute to make sure nothing felt off with the situation and checking his cell. He was right, he, at least, had no reception. The guy from the car—mid-40s maybe, with light brown hair, faded jeans and a Metallica t-shirt—approached Don as he brought his leg over the motorcycle and removed his helmet and gloves before resting them on the bike and running his fingers through his sweat-flattened hair.

"Car trouble?" Don asked.

"Yeah," the guy replied, sounding relieved. "I can't tell what's wrong with it. It made some really odd sounds and then just suddenly died. And I can't get any signal on my cell. I was starting to think that I was going to have to sleep in my car tonight. You wouldn't happen to know anything about cars, would you?"

"A bit," Don said. "I can take a look."

Don's gut feeling was that the guy was what he seemed to be: stranded and frustrated. He even stood a respectful distance behind and to the side of Don as he leant over the car, far enough back that the man wasn't in attacking distance. A quick look over the engine and Don couldn't spot anything obvious that might be causing the trouble. There was a sound behind him and a sudden sharp sting on the back of Don's neck.

Don's hand automatically went to his neck, feeling something sticking out of it. "What the—?" He whirled around in time to see the man holding a gun. But it didn't feel like he had been shot, the pain was all wrong. Instead he was starting to feel woozy. It was a tranquilliser, Don suddenly realised. The man had drugged him. He'd been wrong; the man had set him up.

Don knew that he had to do something before the drug took full effect. In a second, he'd thought through his options, looking for the one that give him the greatest chance of escaping. He'd left his gun at home and there was no way that he'd be able to run far enough to get away before he'd pass out. Even getting on his motorcycle and trying to make a break for it that way would probably be useless. He could pass out and come off the bike, seriously injuring or killing himself, and the man's car was undoubtedly perfectly drivable and would be able to catch up to him quickly. Going off road might give him a chance, but then he was still likely to pass out and be easy prey for the man, even if he did have to come after Don on foot. That only left trying to attack the man and knock him out. Don didn't think he had enough strength or coordination left to do much damage and all that the man would have to do would be stay out of Don's way until he collapsed, which would probably be easy, or shoot him with another dart. And then he'd pass out, leaving him still open to attack if he couldn't knock the man out at all or for long.

Deciding that it was the only real chance he had, Don ran to his motorcycle. He knocked the helmet and gloves to the ground, knowing that he didn't have enough time to put them on, got on and started the bike up. The man was only a couple of yards away when Don took off. He knew that his balance was off and he was having trouble driving in a straight line, but any distance he could put between them would give him a chance. Some chance was better than none. He rounded a curve in the road, out of sight of the man and headed off road. Getting off the motorcycle only a short distance in, knowing that he was getting very close to passing out, he staggered back and crossed to the other side of the road—_why did the FBI agent cross the road?_—heading into the trees on that side. Hopefully his pursuer wasn't a very good tracker and would look for him near his motorcycle. He'd only gotten a few yards in when he heard the man's car pull up on the road.

Don continued on, doggedly trying to ignore how heavy his legs had started to feel and how the world around him was starting to spin. A branch slapped him across the face, leaving behind a stinging pain. Knowing that he probably didn't stand a chance on the ground—no hollows or caves that he could hide in—he looked for a larger tree that he had a chance of climbing and lying on a branch without falling and breaking his neck. Most people would not look up. Spotting a good candidate, he headed for it. Not able to control his stop, he hit the trunk and slid down to the ground. His body didn't want to respond to the panicked thoughts telling it to get up and his eyes closed.

_Maybe the man won't..._

* * *

Before Don opened his eyes, he tried to take stock of how he felt and where he might be. Within a split second of regaining consciousness he'd remembered his encounter and knew that he needed to be careful.

He felt a little hungover, hungry and thirsty. That probably indicated that at least a few hours had passed. He also didn't feel like he was lying on the ground, instead it felt like cold concrete underneath him.

A bubble of panic swelled up in his chest. The man had found him. Don fought it down, knowing that he needed to try to stay calm.

His jacket, socks and shoes had been removed—his feet were a bit cold—and his torso and face ached, like he'd been subjected to a beating or kicking and was bruised. Probably pissed the man off, trying to escape.

There was no sound of somebody else breathing or movement around him, so Don opened his left eye, the one closest to the floor, to a slit. Wherever he was, it was dark. He tried opening both eyes, but the right resisted his attempt. It was swollen shut.

The darkness wasn't complete, after a few seconds he could make out that he was in a room. It wasn't large, and there was one box-like shape in it. Don stiffly sat up, pain shooting through his torso, and shuffled to lean back against a wall. It was time for an inventory on everything else. A feel of his wrist revealed that his watch was gone and his cell was missing too—he wouldn't be able to even tell how long he'd been unconscious. Keeping track of time in this sort of situation was important, and that ability had been taken away from him. His pockets were empty.

Don curled up, feet underneath him, and tried to cover as much of his feet as he could with his jeans.

_Okay,_ he thought to himself. _I've been ambushed and abducted instead of killed outright. Why?_

The possible answers were depressing: ransom, torture, killing. Don knew which he'd prefer. Ransom gave the FBI a chance at trying to find him. But, it wasn't like the man could have known that the person he grabbed had money and was worth ransoming. And the fact that Don was an FBI agent could throw a wrench in the gears if that was his intention.

Which left the other options. Don was willing to bet he'd managed to encounter a serial killer. Only time would tell what the man he'd encountered was like, although Don guessed that his captor did have a temper that was fairly easily provoked, considering the beating he'd obviously endured.

Several hours, at least, had to have passed and Robin would be missing him and worrying. The problem was that he didn't know how long it would take before someone really thought something was wrong. Being late could be written off as his motorcycle having broken down and him having no cell reception to call to let her know. No real search was likely to be made until the following day, assuming it wasn't that day already. It would take time, a lot of it, for them to find his helmet, or motorcycle, assuming that the man had left them where they were. And there was always the possibility that they wouldn't be found, or that his captor had moved them somewhere else where they definitely would never be found.

Realistically, Don knew that he couldn't rely on rescue. His only chance would be to try to escape. Don uncurled and stood up, his legs a bit stiff and his chest complaining at the movement. He was most definitely bruised. Slowly he moved around the outside of the room, feeling the wall. It was rough against his fingertips—brick, he thought. On the third wall he found the door. There was no handle on the inside and it had no give when he tried to shove it. Taking a couple of steps back, he tried ramming it with his shoulder. All that did was add to the pain from his bruises. For completeness' sake he checked the fourth wall, but there was no additional door.

Approaching the box in the middle of the room, he started to get the feeling that it was his toilet. There was a smell of cleaning fluid that got stronger the closer he got and he could see that it was bucket-shaped. Sure that he was right, Don moved back to the wall, sliding down to sit against it. He wondered if there were cameras so that his captor could watch him. It would make using the bucket, when he was forced to by necessity, humiliating.

Don let his head fall back against the wall, taking deep breaths to try to keep the panic at bay. He couldn't let his imagination run away from him with possibilities, even if it was good to try to be prepared. There was an overwhelmingly large list of bad things that could happen to him, other than just dying. But he wasn't going to give in without a fight, he was going to do what he could to try to stay alive and relatively in one piece. To get back home to his family.

He must have dozed off, because all of a sudden he opened his eyes to find that the room was lit from a bulb on the roof. It took several seconds of rapid blinking before his eyes started adjusting. Looking around, he saw that he'd been right with his suspicion—there were two cameras high up on the walls. There were also some vents, so at least he shouldn't have to worry about fresh air.

"Write 'I'm sorry' on the paper that's in the middle of the room," his captor's voice said from outside the door. "Don't try to make it not look like your writing, I've got your wallet, remember."

"And if I don't?" Don asked, spotting the sheet of paper and seeing no good reason as to why the man would want him to write the note. Dump it with his wallet, ID, badge, cell and motorcycle somewhere and make it look like he'd committed suicide or taken off. It would be one way to make sure that the search was scaled down.

"Then I let you die of starvation and dehydration and take somebody else who will be more cooperative. Nobody has ever refused my offer."

Don's stomach sunk. He wasn't the man's first victim. As much as he'd like to tell his captor to go screw himself, he knew that he couldn't take the risk. The threat of letting him starve and dehydrate had sounded deadly serious.

"Fine," Don said shortly, getting up and grabbing the pen and paper. He scrawled the words. "Now what?"

"Put it in front of the door and then move to the back of the room."

Don silently obeyed. It sounded like his captor was going to open the door, giving a possibility for him to escape. He readied himself even as he tried to look non-threatening. There was no sound as the man unlocked the door and swung it open. It was well-oiled. There was a handgun trained on him as the man bent and picked the pen and paper up, putting it out of sight, watching him constantly. He was wearing gloves, so he wouldn't leave any prints on the paper. With the gun, Don couldn't take the risk of trying to attack. His captor was incredibly focussed on the threat that Don posed.

"Why are you doing this?" Don asked.

The man didn't answer, instead he placed a glass of water and a bowl of food just inside and to the side of the door, and then backed up, pulling the door closed again. There were fading footsteps and Don knew that he was alone. He crouched down back against the wall, rubbing his fingers over his lower lip, contemplating whether he should eat the food that his captor had left. It could be drugged...but he couldn't avoid eating or drinking indefinitely. And he was hungry and thirsty.

The only decision that he could make decided, he collected the food and settled against the wall. The water was luke-warm, which did less for his thirst than if it had been cold, but it was welcome. The bowl contained two slices of bread, slightly stale, some sliced tomato, broccoli and cold chicken. It wasn't enough to satisfy him completely, but it calmed the hunger pangs. As soon as he'd finished eating, like his captor was watching and waiting, the light went out.

Don waited as long as he could before using the bucket to relieve himself. At least, being dark, the humiliation was less.

* * *

Robin checked her watch again, before getting up and shifting the curtain aside to look out the window. The street was empty, no motorcycle on it. She pulled out her cell, tried Don's again, and growled when she got his voicemail. There was no point in leaving another message. It wasn't the first time that Don had been late home after a ride, but it was the latest he'd ever been.

At nine she couldn't wait any longer and ate dinner, putting Don's portion in the fridge. There was still no answer on Don's cell and she was starting to really worry. Sure, his motorcycle could have broken down somewhere with no cell reception, but there were other options, too. The main one that dominated her mind was the thought that he'd been in an accident, and was either on his way to the hospital or no one had found him, and he was lying unconscious and bleeding on the pavement somewhere.

Ten thirty rolled around with still no answer or sign of Don. Robin was now wondering whether he'd gotten called into the office and forgotten to let her know, and had turned off his cell because he was involved in some FBI operation. Even as the SAC, he sometimes still went out into the field. She called Andrew Toh's cell, Don's replacement as supervisor of violent crimes, knowing that even if he was still home he was often up late, and it was quickly answered by Luke, Andrew's husband. Andrew and Luke had gotten married in the brief time that same-sex marriage had been legal in California. They'd both very quickly fit in to the extended circle of Don's former team, their consultants, and family.

"Hi Robin, it's Luke. I'll get Andrew for you. Say hi to Don for me."

She hadn't realised that Andrew had her number saved in his phone as well as Don's, although considering the fact that she'd been called in by Andrew for cases, she probably should have.

A few seconds later, Andrew came on the line, his voice warm. "Hi, Robin, what can I do for you?"

She pushed away the feeling that she was being silly and explained. The fact that Andrew was at home meant that there was a good chance that there wasn't anything going on that would need Don, but she still needed to know.

"I'll check in and get back to you," Andrew said. He gave a short laugh. "He's probably just broken down somewhere, missing you and his dinner."

"You're probably right," Robin agreed. "Thanks."

Fifteen minutes later, Andrew phoned back to tell her that Don hadn't called in and there was no report of him in any local hospitals.

"If you haven't heard from him or he hasn't turned up by the time you go to work in the morning, call me," Andrew ordered. "I'm sure everything's fine."

She slept fitfully, waking regularly to check her phone. A few times she got up and checked the rest of the house, making sure Don hadn't come in and fallen asleep elsewhere, either too tired to make it to their bedroom or not wanting to wake her. Each time she was disappointed and it took longer to fall back asleep.

When there was still no news at midday the next day—if he'd broken down, he should have been found by someone in the morning traffic—she was sure that something bad had happened. Don had been in an accident, was lying dead in a ditch, out of sight of the road.

The FBI launched a search, although Colby kept on reassuring her that Don was probably fine and would be embarrassed at all the fuss he'd caused, when they found him.

She wished that she could believe that Colby was right, but she couldn't. In her gut, she knew that something had happened to Don.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for all the reviews. I'll be replying to the signed ones shortly. The site is being a pain and taking about 24 hours to email anything to me and I've had a busy week. Next chapter will be up early next week.

Chapter 2

Don was being punished, but he didn't understand why. He had done what his captor had asked him to do, yet he'd been left alone in the dark for what felt like days. Sleeping had taken up some time, but when he was awake all he had was blackness and his thoughts to keep him company. His stomach churned uncomfortably again and he grimaced, pressing his lips tightly together. There was a jackhammer pounding at his skull, his mouth felt like the desert and his stomach like he'd abandoned it. The headache was making him feel nauseous, too. He needed drink and food, in that order. Some Tylenol or aspirin would be appreciated as well.

Yelling hadn't resulted in his captor visiting him. Don was starting to wonder whether the man was even around, whether he had been left to die.

His thoughts took a traitorous turn, constantly berating him on his stupidity. Telling him that taking that promotion had dulled his instincts and made him a useless agent. That if he'd still been out more in the field he would have realised that something was wrong before it was too late. He never would have ended up in this situation in the first place.

When the food and drink (two glasses of water!) somehow miraculously appeared (how had he missed the door opening?) and he had light again, he couldn't have been more grateful or relieved. He hadn't been abandoned. The man wasn't going to let him die.

It didn't do enough to clear his headache, and he'd almost thrown up twice while slowly eating and drinking, taking breaks to let his body adjust, but his body was happier for it.

He hadn't even thought about the possibility that it could be drugged this time...

* * *

Don was lying on his side on the floor, his right arm resting uncomfortably underneath him, half-asleep. There was light as he opened his eyes. The last he could remember was eating and drinking...it had been drugged. His gut tightened in fear as he remembered. What had his captor done while he'd been unconscious? Why had he wanted Don unconscious?

Sitting up—Don knew this time that he was alone in the room—he looked around. There was another glass of water, near the door, and he knew he needed it. The two glasses from before had not been enough, although his headache seemed to be gone. But it could wait while he tried to figure out what happened and whether there was anything different. Don put a palm to his chin in thought and then rubbed it across his chin and cheeks. The stubble from before was gone. He'd been shaved. The feeling of sweat and slight grittiness from several days (he guessed) without washing and in the same clothes that he did not fondly remember from hunting fugitives with Coop was gone too, like he'd been washed. There was no longer dirt on the right knee of his jeans. His clothes had been cleaned. A tentative hand run through his hair indicated that it had been washed, too.

Okay, so his captor had drugged him so that he could wash, shave, and clean him and his clothes. That was creepy and weird. Standing up, Don marched over to the bucket. Yep, it was clean again, too, as he'd suspected. What motivation did the man have to do it? The bucket made sense, the rest, not so much. Unless there was a sexual component to it all, his brain helpfully added. That made him shudder. He'd been stripped naked and washed, completely helpless. His captor could have done anything that he wanted. There were drugs that could render him pliant rather than unconscious and he wouldn't remember a damn thing that had happened. Don frantically went through a mental check of his body, concentrating particularly on his groin, ass and mouth—as far as he could tell, everything felt okay. It didn't mean that nothing sexual had happened to him, though. It wasn't a guarantee.

"You son of a bitch!" Don yelled at the camera he was facing. "What did you do?"

Don stood there for several minutes, waiting to see whether the man came to see him, to respond, but he didn't. A part of him wanted to punish his captor by not drinking the water that had been left for him, but the thought was stupid—that would only be punishing himself. Don collected the glass and paced around the room as he slowly drank it. He absently hiked his jeans up when they slipped down slightly. The weight loss from the days that he'd been without food hadn't been enough for him to be able to tighten his belt a notch, but it was still noticeable.

The light went out and Don continued his pacing, ignoring the darkness.

* * *

Colby didn't want to believe it, but it was right there in front of him. The note, saying 'I'm sorry'—and it looked like Don's handwriting—the motorcycle, Don's cell, ID and wallet, all dumped at a known suicide spot. No body had been found yet, so it wasn't a given that Don had killed himself, but all the evidence make it look probable.

It didn't make sense, though, to Colby's mind. Don hadn't seemed suicidal, in fact, almost the opposite. He'd settled into his new role as Special Agent in Charge, he was getting married in two months and he'd seemed happy. There'd been none of the usual signs of suicidal behaviour.

Nobody had even considered the idea that Don might have just decided to leave his life behind and disappear or committed suicide when he'd gone missing. The only things that were being considered were mechanical trouble with his motorcycle or foul play. And as the days passed on, now up to six, foul play had become more likely. They'd been able to partially trace his route, once the television and radio appeal aired, although it hadn't gotten them any closer to figuring out what had happened. So this seemed like it was coming out of left field.

Despite it all, Colby just couldn't believe it. If they found a body, he'd have to, but until then, he couldn't. Maybe Robin, Alan or Charlie would know something that would make the idea of suicide make sense, but he didn't think so. And the idea of Don just taking off, abandoning his fiancee and family two months before his wedding? That Colby couldn't buy, either.

It just didn't gel with the Don that Colby knew. And that meant, if he was right, that somebody was using this to throw them off the scent, to stop them for searching for him. That Don had met with foul play. And maybe he was still alive.

* * *

Time had ceased to have a lot of meaning to Don. The way that he was losing weight told him that he definitely wasn't being fed regularly enough, meaning he couldn't even use his meals to try to figure out how long he'd been held with any accuracy. His body had also stopped expecting so much food, impeding further any chance that he had of judging the time by his hunger level. He guessed that maybe two weeks had gone by, with his only interaction with his captor being at meal times. Even then, the man barely talked to him. He'd been drugged another two times and woken up to find that he'd been shaved and cleaned. Both times he'd tried to hold onto consciousness while feigning the drug taking effect, in the hope that maybe he'd still be awake when his captor came in the room, but it hadn't worked. He'd still passed out before the man arrived. He'd keep trying until it worked, until he had a chance to do whatever it took to escape.

Other than when he was given food or drink, he'd mostly been left without light, which was further screwing with his internal clock. Each time the light came on it seemed to take longer for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, having to shield them until it was no longer painful. He was worried that if he ever did escape his eyesight would be seriously damaged.

All the time alone without much to do also wasn't helping. He was exercising as much as he could, trying to keep somewhat in shape, even if it was mostly done in the dark. It wouldn't be much use to try to escape if he couldn't physically do it. Pretty much the only other thing that he could do was think. He'd thought through his situation, exploring every possible avenue of escape, over and over. He'd thought about his family, what they were going through. Being apart from Robin was an ache that didn't ease, but instead got stronger the more time marched on.

Fantasies of being back home, plots of movies and books, the couple of old unsolved cases that had gotten so far under his skin that he'd practically memorised the files, singing quietly (or loudly, depending on his mood and how annoying the song was), talking to himself, playing and commentating imaginary baseball and hockey games... Anything and everything to try to keep sane, to fill the hours and hours and hours.

Still, it wasn't enough. People weren't designed to have such little contact with other people and nothing to do for days and weeks on end.

The light suddenly came on and Don put a hand above his eyes to shield them, eyes tearing. He blinked rapidly until the watering stopped and he could lower his hand, wiping the tears away in the same movement. He stayed as he was, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, as the door opened. As always he saw the man's gun before anything else; he still wasn't taking any chances with Don. The tray of food, drink, and toothpaste and brush that was placed on the floor was welcome, but he wasn't going to let his captor know that.

"Thanks," Don said, sarcastically, "but I ordered dinner hours ago. You're late. I hope you weren't looking for a tip."

The man stared at him for a few seconds and Don stared back, challenging his jailor's authority. He wasn't broken yet, not by a long shot. A little cracked maybe, but not broken.

"You aren't allowed to speak any more," his captor finally said. "If you do, I will leave you to starve." There was silence for a few seconds. "No speaking at all, at any time," he reiterated.

Don bit back the automatic 'But' he was going to respond with, a swell of panic crashing through him. He had worried that his sarcastic comments might result in the meals being withdrawn, but until now his captor hadn't even threatened it. Not being able to talk at all, to hear a voice for days on end, particularly if the man wasn't in a talkative mood when he dropped off Don's meal, that would be additional torture. It would add to the sensory deprivation he was already experiencing...that he was already struggling so hard to deal with.

The door closed and he was alone. Don stood up and walked over to the tray, taking it away from the door to eat, and cleaned his teeth afterwards, using a little of the intentionally leftover water to rinse afterwards.

After he'd finished the light went out. Each breath he took was hyper-loud in the stillness. The silence crowded in around him, oppressive and suffocating. Don's jaw clenched as he tried to ignore the quiet, tried to ignore how loud the quiet was.

All he had now was being lost inside his head...and it was a bad place to be.

* * *

The door opened abruptly, waking Don. The light was on, but his eyes had quickly adjusted to it. A flood of relief swept through him when he realised that it wasn't his captor standing in the doorway.

Ian Edgerton had come to his rescue. He was saved.

"Well, are you coming or not, Eppes?" Edgerton asked, with the slight quirk of his lips that indicated amusement.

Don stood up. "How did you find me?"

"I've been tracking your captor for a while, and that led me here," Edgerton replied. "Finding you is an unexpected bonus. We all thought you were dead."

Don walked to the door and for some inexplicable reason stopped before he left the room. Something was keeping him there.

"I don't have all day." Edgerton sounded exasperated. "What do you want me to do, leave you here?"

Don abruptly woke to find that he was in darkness. It had just been a dream. Not the first dream of rescue he'd had, although it was the first to feature Edgerton. Closing his eyes, Don tried to fall back to sleep. It was an escape, a chance to be with people, to talk and to hear voices. It didn't matter that they weren't real.

* * *

Charlie's hand was on her stomach, rubbing small circles, gentle and loving. They were lying on their bed, both under the covers, neither able to sleep yet. Rest was something that hadn't easily come, not for a month. Not since Don had disappeared.

"We're going to have to tell everybody," Amita said softly. "We can't keep it secret much longer. I think Alan's starting to wonder why I'm sick so often and I'm starting to show."

"I thought we were going to wait until the start of the second trimester," Charlie replied, his hand stopping to rest against her belly. Cradling their child.

"I just think..." Amita sighed. It should have been happy news and only happy news. But it wasn't going to be, because their child's uncle was missing. It was a mixed bag of emotions for her and Charlie and she knew it would be for Alan and Robin as well. "It's too close to when... to Don and Robin's wedding. It's going to be hard enough for everybody... I don't think we should be making it harder with this. Plus, it'll give your dad something good to focus on."

"Don didn't...doesn't," Charlie automatically corrected himself, "even know that he's going to be an uncle."

At the obvious pain in his voice, Amita placed her hand on top of Charlie's, trying to comfort him. A month was a long time. They both knew that the odds of Don being found alive now weren't good. It didn't mean that they didn't hope, but hope could only get them so far. Don's family had rejected the idea that he'd committed suicide or purposely gone missing; it wasn't something that any of them could see Don doing and no body had been found near his motorcycle. The only thing that made sense was Don being abducted by somebody. Somebody who wanted to hurt him. But even with all the work that Charlie had done, that the FBI had done, they still had no leads as to what had happened to Don. "I know."

"I wanted to tell him and Dad so much when we found out," Charlie admitted quietly, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, trying to cover up the welling tears. "But we decided not to, and now Don may—he may never know."

They stayed quiet for a few minutes, both thinking about Don, wondering whether they'd ever see him again, whether their child would ever met its uncle.

"You're right," Charlie said. "We'll tell them this week."

He rolled onto his side, facing her and she shifted to face him, settling herself into his arms. Sleep eventually found them.

* * *

Blankness. Nothingness. Emptiness.

Don was surrounded by light, but he might as well have been sitting in the dark for the complete lack of notice he'd given it. The piece of wall he was staring at was as featureless as his mind.

He hadn't been aware that the light had come on, the door opening and a tray of food being left. Or the light eventually turning off when his captor realised that Don wasn't going to move.

Don dozed off, still not aware that he'd completely zoned out for hours. A dream of being rescued ambushed him and he was sitting on the couch with Robin again, her curled up against him, one arm wrapped around his waist. Warm and secure. Loved.

"Don't ever leave me again."

"I won't," Don promised. He rested his chin on the top of her head and hugged her tighter to him. "Never again."

The feel of Robin leaning on him stayed with him as the real world came crashing in and he found himself sitting against the wall in darkness. Still a prisoner.

Something snapped inside of him and he stood up abruptly, screaming at the roof. "What the hell do you want? What do you want? What's the point? Let me go! Let me the fuck go you fucking son of a bitch!" As he moved around the room, too filled with rage to stand still, he found the tray and kicked it against the wall. "Let me go!"

He deflated, collapsing down to a crouch, worn out and tired. What he'd done suddenly dawned on him and he whispered, "No." Agitated, terrified, he scooted back against the wall, curling in on himself like he could pull the angry words back in, pluck them out of the air and hide them behind him, murmuring, "No, no, no, no."

He'd talked. He wasn't allowed to talk.

The man was going to leave him to die of thirst and starvation.

He'd just signed his own death warrant.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you for all your reviews. The site is still not sending out alerts, so I'll reply to signed comments when I actually receive them.

Chapter 3

The light had come on. Don's mind was so sluggish that the implications of that took a while to penetrate. Maybe his captor had changed his mind. Maybe Don wasn't going to be left to die.

He didn't have enough energy to try to get off the floor when the door opened, the man appearing, gun in hand as always, but this time carrying a baseball bat in the other as well, swinging it as he walked.

"You didn't mean to talk, did you?" the man asked him, almost sounding regretful.

Don shook his head slightly.

"And you know what you did was wrong?"

It hurt to do, to give the man that much control over what Don did, but he nodded anyway. Survival was more important than pride.

"Good." The man smiled. "You're learning. You've been the most stubborn one I've had in a while, but you're learning."

The condescension helped to focus Don's mind and bring back a spark of the anger that he'd felt. He knew that he was fracturing, falling apart, under the mental and emotional onslaught of his captivity. The slide into despair had been so easy, the way slicked by his complete isolation from people and life.

"You may not have meant to talk, but you did."

Don knew that this had been too easy. After all, his captor had said that he'd leave Don to die.

"I can't let you get off without a punishment."

_What, this hasn't been punishment enough?_

"So, you have a choice. I leave you here without food and water and you die...or you become acquainted with the business end of this bat. It's your choice. I'll give you a few minutes to think about it."

_It's my choice? There is_ no_ choice._

The only choice Don had was to accede to the beating. Short term pain, after all, was better than a definite death. At least, at this point. Maybe he'd change his mind about that later on.

"Made your choice?"

Don nodded.

"Do I leave you?"

Don briefly closed his eyes and then shook his head.

"The bat, then?" The man asked, holding it up in the air and forcing Don to agree to being hurt.

Again, Don nodded.

The gun was holstered. Even though Don knew that he probably didn't have the energy to get away, he knew that he had to try. It might be the only time where the gun wasn't a risk. He pushed against the floor, finding strength he didn't think he had, and tried to stand up. But it was already too late; the bat slammed into his stomach and he fell back to the cold concrete. Blow after blow fell against his torso and arms, and he got lost in a haze of hurt. There was a crack and excruciating pain radiated from his lower right arm. He'd stayed silent till that point, but the pain from the break was too much and he screamed. His captor didn't stop the assault, continuing on until Don could feel himself starting to fade away. Only when there was no new pain for a minute or so did Don realise that it had finally ended. The bat was used one last time to prod him over onto his back, forcing him to uncurl and causing his arm to hit the floor, plunging him into unconsciousness.

He drifted in and out, aware enough at times to swallow the water and sports drinks that were held to his lips and the mushy food that was forced into his mouth, but not enough to realise that it was his captor who was helping him. The pain was ever-present, the man wasn't kind enough to give him painkillers or to try to splint his arm in any way. Sometimes he threw up what he'd been given, the nausea caused by the constant pain too much. Those times always ended in more agony and a sudden abrupt drop out of consciousness, his jailor angry with him for making a mess.

Finally, Don's brain seemed to clear and he could stay awake. He was exhausted, weak, and everything hurt. There was spectacular bruising on his right arm and it was swollen. Not having a splint, he did his best to provide some support for the break by wrapping the bottom of his t-shirt around his arm, past his elbow. He had no idea whether the bones were properly aligned, but there was nothing he could really do about it. He'd lost more weight in the days that he'd lost (and the days before that) and had to tighten his belt again.

When his captor next appeared, instead of the glass of water that Don was normally given, there was milk. The trays even seemed to start coming more regularly and Don was able to eventually loosen his belt a notch. The light was even left on for longer.

Don didn't know what to think any more.

* * *

The soft light of sunrise diffused through the curtains had finally brightened the room enough that Robin could start to see the photo. She stayed on her side, watching as more and more detail appeared.

His smile, his nose, his eyes.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, her head beside his, her smile. Happy.

Two hours later, her alarm started beeping and she turned it off. She didn't need an alarm now, but she still set it each night in the hope that, maybe, it would finally be the night that she slept the whole way through instead of waking well before dawn. Half an hour later, she got out of bed.

Robin showered and ate breakfast mechanically, relieved that her parents weren't awake yet, before holing herself up in her study. The temptation to go into Don's was there, but, as always, she ignored it, after a brief hesitation. It was stupid, but she wanted it to be the same, _exactly_ the same, if...

Burying herself in work had become Robin's salvation. Her family and Don's wouldn't allow her to completely hide in it, as much as she might have wished that they would, but it allowed her to almost forget, even if it was only for a little while.

At lunch time, Robin's mother knocked on the door. Knowing that the concern that her mother would show if she avoided them wasn't worth the privacy, Robin joined her parents to eat. Her parents talked quietly between themselves, not attempting to include her in the conversation, and for that she was grateful.

The morning had started off sunny, but patchy cloud was coming in, Robin noted when she rinsed her plate and glass in the sink. It wasn't moving fast; blue sky would probably dominate for a few more hours. It was a beautiful day.

She shut herself in her study again and started making notes for the arguments she planned to use. The focus that she'd had in the morning was gone, it took her several seconds each time to realise that she'd dropped her pen and was staring into space. Not arbitrary space, though; somehow she always ended up staring at the clock, watching the seconds tick past. If it had been the previous clock she'd had, she wouldn't have had to watch the seconds tick past, she'd have heard them disappear into memory. She'd loved that clock, but Don had hated it, hated how loud the ticking was if the room was quiet, so she'd put it in her study. When every second that passed suddenly meant another second without him, she'd understood how he felt. She'd tried to throw it away, but it had become unnecessary when Amita had discovered her sobbing in front of the trash can, unable to let it go. It was another reminder of Don, a memory that they shared. It didn't go in the trash, instead it was hidden away somewhere in Charlie's house, waiting for things to change and to be wanted again.

When she realised that it'd reached quarter to three, she forced herself to not look at the clock. To try not to think. Or notice that it was still sunny outside, the cloud sticking to the horizon.

The number of pages that she read through in the next two hours was pitiful, but she managed to not look at the clock, even once. She emerged when she started smelling dinner and joined her parents in front of the television as it finished cooking, curling up on the sofa.

Dinner was a repeat of lunch—her parents left her alone. After another couple of hours of work, she finally headed to bed, stopping to give both her parents hugs and say good night.

"Thank you," Robin said to them both, and she meant it.

On her side in her bed again, Robin kept the lamp on for a while, wanting to see the photo, wanting to see that they were happy. Needing to see Don's face.

She finally let the thoughts that she'd been trying to keep at bay all day crowd into her mind. She shouldn't be in her bed, in her house. She should be in a hotel, with Don. And her finger should now have another ring on it, to match the ring that would be on Don's. She should be married now.

If Don had purposely disappeared and left her (which she didn't really believe) and finally did come back again, at some point in the future, she didn't want him back. Not now. Not when he'd missed their wedding day.

Robin turned the lamp off and their smiling faces disappeared.

* * *

"Don," Terry said, warning in her voice, "we're meant to be studying."

"We're taking a break."

Terry was lying on her bed, head propped up slightly on her pillow, book opened. Don had mostly been able to ignore her position for the majority of their study session—he did have some self-restraint—but the longer it had gone on, the more distracting it became. He wanted to be on top of her, both of them naked. To that end, he'd climbed up her body and tried to pull the book from her grasp. She wasn't letting go.

"Fine," she breathed out in a put-upon sigh, releasing her grip. "But if you can't describe Stockholm Syndrome tomorrow, don't blame me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Don murmured, moving the book to the side and letting her pull him down for a kiss. When they pulled apart and he opened his eyes again, it was Robin's blue eyes looking back at him.

"I've missed you," she said, longing in her voice.

Don woke, the dream, part memory, part not, fresh in his mind. He'd unconsciously moved his arm and he hissed in pain.

The dream had been a warning, he realised. Since his captor had broken his arm and beaten him, Don hadn't even thought about escaping. He hadn't tried to stay conscious after he'd been dosed for his 'cleaning'—there was relief from the pain then. He'd just been grateful for the light being left on longer and more regular food. Grateful to the man who was holding him captive, to the man who'd beaten him, who was keeping him from his family. He'd been lost in a stupor, not really thinking at all, aware of the pain and not much else for who knows how long.

He'd been broken...but he was better now. It was time to fight again.

* * *

It didn't take Alan long to spot Robin. He walked over to the koi pond and joined her in contemplation.

"For some reason," Alan said after a few seconds of silence, noting the tense line of her back and the way her arms were tightly wrapped around her stomach, "whenever one of my family disappears," he winced at the choice of word, feeling the familiar pull of grief, "in this house I always find them out here, contemplating the koi."

"I'm not married to Don, Alan. I'm not part of your family," Robin replied, sounding weary.

"You _are_ part of my family, Robin. You may not legally be part of the family, but that doesn't matter. Don loves you and that's all that matters."

Her breath hitched and her shoulders started shaking. Tears were something that she'd largely tried to hide from Alan, maybe because she knew that he was hurting just as much as she and didn't want to make it worse. For only the second time in the years that his son and Robin had been together, Alan pulled Robin into his arms and tried to comfort her. It only took a few minutes for the crying spell to run its length, and she pulled away from him again, grabbing a tissue out of her pocket to wipe at her eyes and nose.

"It's hard, seeing Charlie and Amita moving on, despite everything that's happened. The baby, in particular," Alan said astutely. As much as Amita's pregnancy was a source of joy for him, it was also a source of sorrow, and he could only imagine that it was worse for Robin, left to wonder whether she and Don would still be, or would have been, blessed by children. Left to see Charlie and Amita's lives moving forward together when hers and Don's couldn't.

"Don and I," Robin said quietly, "we hadn't decided. About children, I mean." She looked at the koi before continuing. "We both work such long hours, we're older, we didn't know whether it would be fair to have a child. Or even whether we could."

Alan could understand their worry.

"To be honest," Robin added, barely audible, "I wasn't sure I even wanted one. But now..."

"You don't get a choice. Not unless Don is found."

Robin rapidly shook her head. "If he walked away from me, if he just left me, I don't want him back. It's too late. And if someone took him...part of me wants him to still be alive, to come home to me. But part of me hopes that he's dead, because it's been too long. What could..." Her voice broke. "What could have happened to him in three months? How much could he have been hurt? What could he have been through?"

"I have the same feelings, believe me," Alan said. Except, if Don had left of his own free will, which none of them believed, Alan did want him back. He would shout and yell at him for what Don had put Alan through, for what he'd put everybody through, but he still needed him back.

"I don't know how much longer I can hope that he'll come back." A tear had slipped down Robin's cheek and she brushed it away. "I feel like I'm betraying him even saying that."

"At some point," Alan said slowly, his own heart heavy and aching, "we have to try to move on with our lives. Without him."

_And it'll be so incredibly hard that you'll have no idea how you're going to do it, how you'll survive it,_ Alan thought. _But you can. And that hurts, too._

"I miss him so much, Alan." The words were raw, full of pain.

"I know." Alan put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "I know."

* * *

Maybe it was Don's seeming lack of interest in life, in fighting any more, but his captor was falling into a pattern and becoming complacent. Don was almost certain of it. The drugging seemed to happen more regularly, and with the fact that Don was pretending to fall asleep, anyway, after a lot of his meals—captivity and pain were exhausting and depressing after all—Don had a feeling that his day was coming closer. The last time he'd been drugged, Don had managed to stay awake long enough to hear his captor open the door. It was a first, but Don was going to make sure it wasn't a last. He thought his body was getting more used to the drug with the more regular doses, enough that it was slower with taking effect. Not by much, but maybe enough to tip things in his favour.

Don knew that he was likely only going to get one chance, and if he failed he'd probably end up dead, considering his captor's explosive temper. Which meant he had to do whatever it took, he had to aim to kill or at least heavily incapacitate.

His meal arrived and Don ignored it, as he had been doing, before eventually 'noticing' it. It was part of his act. His dinner was a kid-sized greasy burger, mostly cold after sitting there for a while, with some limp salad to go with it and a glass of milk. Don choked most of it down, fairly certain that it was drugged. Once he'd finished, he pushed the tray away and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. He let his head gradually fall forward and to the side and his arms relax, feigning the appearance of sleep.

Just when he was becoming certain that, yes, his meal had been drugged—there was a lethargy starting to spread throughout his body—he heard the door open. It felt like forever before footsteps approached him, stopping right in front. He could hear his captor breathing, loud in the silence, and before the drug could drag him off into unconsciousness, he abruptly opened his eyes. A split second was all that he needed to see the shape that was crouched in front of him. Don leaned forward and grabbed the startled man by the shoulders, ignoring the fact that his arm still hurt with movement, before pushing back towards the wall as hard as he could, slamming his captor's head into the brick above him. His strike had been as quick as a snake, the man hadn't had a chance to fight back. An unfortunate byproduct was that he hit the back of his own head against the wall.

He shook off the dazed feeling and repeated the process, hearing something crunch above him. As Don was fighting off the blackness himself, having yet again hit his own head gaining the momentum needed, a heavy weight fell on him. The man had collapsed on top of him. It took all of Don's strength to push him off, feeling something snap in his arm again, and stand up, staggering in place. The drug's effect was increasing, the pain in his arm was excruciating again, and his head was aching and spinning. He put his left hand to the back of it and it came back wet and sticky. He was bleeding. Knowing that he was going to collapse any minute himself, Don did the only thing he could to guarantee his safety.

It happened in a haze. It was like he was barely aware that his left hand was punching his captor over and over again in the face. Getting bloody, his knuckles splitting and bruising. He continued until he couldn't any more, until his legs weren't holding him up, and he'd crashed to his knees, still not stopping. Until his eyes shut and he fell the last few feet to the floor to not move any more.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you to everyone for the reviews. One of these days the site will start sending alerts of all sorts promptly.

Chapter 4

His head felt like it was about to fall off, his right arm like he really wanted it to fall off, and he could barely move his left hand. It wasn't a pleasant transition back into wakefulness, by any stretch of the imagination.

And then Don opened his eyes.

It was only when he found that he couldn't get away any further, that there was a wall against his back, that Don realised he'd moved. One second he was lying next to what used to be a person, but was almost unrecognisable as such, its face bashed to a pulp, the next he was across the room, curled in on himself, hiding from the view. And realising that his left hand was covered in blood. His gorge rose and he managed to lean to the side just in time so that he didn't vomit on himself.

He'd done it. He'd killed the man with his own two hands.

He had to get away from what he'd done.

Suddenly Don was at the top of a flight of stairs, looking into a very ordinary living area. There were two comfy chairs, a TV and dvd player, a table with some sports magazines strewn on it. All ordinary, yet somehow too much to look at, overwhelming to his starved senses. The next doorway led into a kitchen and Don stopped halfway through the room. He picked a medium-sized knife from the knife block, finding it hard to force his stiffened left hand to grasp it. His right arm was wrapped in the bottom of his t-shirt to stabilise it, any movement sending agony pulsing through him. He didn't even remember wrapping it around his arm. There was a hall and a door at the end of it. Frosted glass in a panel at head height, a dead bolt on the inside.

Then he was stepping down onto a path that wound through the front yard, knife still in hand. The path was rough under his bare feet, the street rougher. The air was cool, raising goosebumps on his bare arms. It was dark, the streets empty, lights out in the surrounding houses.

Don started walking.

* * *

Colby was hoping that they were right. There were nerves in the pit of his stomach as he drove, fast as he could safely.

It had been almost four months since Don had gone missing. Colby had accepted the realisation that Don was likely dead and there was a good chance that they'd never find his body. He hadn't ever said it outright to Robin, Alan or Charlie, but he thought that they knew. They were still hoping, but underneath that hope they knew that Don was never coming home.

And now, Colby was hoping that he was about to see a miracle...and hoping that the cost of it wasn't too high. It was Gary Walker who had called him. Two uniforms on patrol had found a man, dazed and injured, wandering the streets, a knife in his hand. One of them had recognised him—Gary had made sure that Don's description and photo had been hammered into all of the LAPD's officers—and contacted Gary, as per Gary's orders. They hadn't been able to get Don, presuming they were right and it was Don, to put down the knife, so they were hoping that a familiar face might help. Well, two familiar faces—Gary was on his way as well. If they could avoid pepper spraying or tasing Don, then they'd try.

Colby spotted the black and whites and pulled in behind them, the nerves increasing. As he stepped out of the car, he could hear Gary's voice. He turned towards the sound, finally spotting the officers...and Don.

It _was_ Don. There was absolutely no doubt in Colby's mind. He was sitting on the curb, knife still held in his hand, Gary a few feet away, crouched down and talking to him. The first things that Colby noticed were that Don was barefoot and he'd lost weight and muscle. But his hair was about the same length as when he'd disappeared, and there was only a few days growth of beard on his face. It also looked like he was wearing the same t-shirt and jeans as he'd been wearing. It was a dichotomy that didn't make sense. Don was also cradling his right arm, the knife held in his non-dominant left hand. His left hand looked banged up and there was blood on his hand, shirt and neck.

Seeing Colby, Gary stood up and backed off a few feet. Don took no notice. His gaze was unfocussed and he didn't seem to realise that they were there.

"Lieutenant," Colby said.

"Granger," Walker acknowledged. "He's completely out of it. Maybe you'll have better luck getting through to him."

Colby took Gary's place, crouching down in front of Don, making sure to stay out of reach if Don suddenly lost it and tried to lunge at him with the knife. Don's expression was still blank; the lights on, but nobody home.

"Don," Colby said, "it's Colby." There was no eye movement, nothing to indicate that Don had heard his voice or recognised it. "Man, am I glad to see you. We've all missed you. Your dad, Charlie, Robin." At Robin's name, Colby thought that Don's head had moved slightly, looking more towards him. "Especially Robin. They'll be so happy to see you."

_Come on, Don,_ Colby thought. _Come back to us._ Don was looking at him now, but there still wasn't any recognition in his gaze.

"You want to see them, see Robin, don't you? Don you've got to drop the knife first. I can't take you to see them until you drop the knife."

Don's gaze lowered to his hand.

"You need to let the knife go, Don. You're safe, and you can't see Robin until you let it go."

Don's hand moved and Colby's stomach tightened, knowing that the officers behind him had their weapons trained on Don. Then there was a flood of relief, Don had dropped it beside him.

"That's good, Don," Colby praised, slowly moving to retrieve it. "Thank you."

Don's eyes caught his, and this time Colby thought that Don really saw him. "Hey, Don, it's going to be okay."

Colby somehow seemed to register the panic that suddenly gripped Don a second before it showed on his face. They were both going for the knife, but Colby got there first, flinging it across the gravel and out of reach. The knife gone, Don hit him in the face instead with his left hand. The blow was stronger than he'd expected, Don propelled by fear.

Gary joined him, and together they managed to restrain the frantically struggling man on the ground, worried that if they didn't he might continue fighting or try to run. The limbs were suddenly limp in their grasps and Don's eyes had closed; he'd passed out.

"What the hell happened to you?" Colby murmured as he and Gary both let go.

"There's an ambulance on the way," Gary said.

Suddenly Gary was staggering back, struck by a punch to the jaw, and Don was up and fighting again. He'd been feigning unconsciousness, Colby realised. They restrained him again, Don's struggle more frantic but not as strong, and this time Colby grabbed his right arm. To Colby's surprise, Don collapsed like his strings had been cut. It had to have hurt a lot.

"You okay?" Colby asked Gary, willing the ambulance to hurry up. This time they weren't letting go of Don. Colby thought he was really unconscious this time, but they weren't taking the risk.

"Yeah," Walker replied. "He's still got a hell of a punch. These the clothes he was wearing when he disappeared?"

Colby nodded. "They look like it."

"He's lost a lot of weight."

"Yeah." Now that Colby was right beside him, he could see how much. Don wasn't skeletal, but a lot of his muscle was gone and he was skinny. To have lost that much in four months wasn't good.

The ambulance finally arrived and Don still hadn't stirred. They efficiently loaded him in and started checking for injuries on the way to the hospital. His right arm was likely broken, he had a laceration and lump on the back of his head, his left hand was swollen and bruised, and the bottom of his feet were scraped. On top of all that there was the weight loss.

To Colby, it all added up to somebody holding Don hostage and Don escaping, most likely after a fight with his captor. The head wound could explain his aggression and confusion, on top of whatever had happened to him while he was gone. Four months was a long time. They had Don back, but Colby already knew that Don wasn't the same man as when he'd disappeared.

* * *

The bed was surprisingly soft, which Don knew contradicted his previous hospital experiences. But, then, anything would seem soft after lying on concrete. The ache from Don's arm, hand, feet and back of his head were all down to a dull throb. He was waiting to have surgery on his arm. The doctor had asked if he'd broken it before, recently. Don had only been able to answer with a nod, the words wouldn't come.

The feeling that he was going through an out of body experience had mostly gone away. But he was still confused, a little disconnected, and unsure if any of his experience was real. Time had seemed to jump before, and then there had been Colby and Gary Walker. Before that, even though he hadn't really felt _there_, he'd been sure that he'd escaped. And then two people he knew had suddenly appeared, and there was no way that they could have known to turn up there. That had made him sure that he was stuck in a dream. And now, he just didn't know. It felt real. But Don couldn't even remember how he'd escaped. He knew he had, but he couldn't remember how. Thinking about it just made him feel anxious.

Don had wanted to reply to the doctor, but he couldn't figure out how to get the words out. How to get any words out. In his dreams he could speak, so maybe it meant that this was real. It felt like so long since he'd last spoken. The doctor had tried to get him to answer different questions vocally, but Don couldn't. After a brief physical examination, Don had heard the doctor ask for extra scans and a psychiatric consultation. It was a relief when he was left alone for a bit—all the scans, noise and the bright light, the touches against his skin, it was overwhelming.

"Don?"

Colby was standing at the curtain dividing off his little cubicle, hands in his pockets. Was this real? He'd dreamed so many times of escaping, he didn't want this to be another dream. He couldn't cope if this was just another dream. Colby approached his bed, and Don saw that his cheek was bruised. He had a vague remembrance of hitting Colby, and he felt guilty. He'd been so confused and scared at the time, so sure that he was in a dream.

"You look a lot better than when I last saw you." The tone was light, but Don could hear the underlying worry. "So the doctor says that you're being even less talkative than usual."

Don shrugged slightly. He might not be able to speak, but at least he could use non-verbal gestures.

"Is there something wrong with your voice?"

Don shrugged again. Maybe there was, he didn't know. It just wouldn't work. Even though there were questions he wanted to ask. How long had he been gone, where was Robin and his family—he wanted to see them. Was this real?

Don's eyes lit on a way to find out the answer to the first question. Colby's watch had the date as well as the time. Don extended his left hand towards Colby's arm, trying to gesture that he wanted to see the watch.

"What?" Colby asked, puzzled, as he lifted his hand up. Don frowned and growled slightly, bringing his left hand back and using the mummified digits to point at his right wrist.

It took Colby another second to realise what he wanted, but then he was showing Don the watch face. Don kept on staring at the date unable to believe it. He'd had absolutely no concept of time, no idea how long he'd been gone. Four months. The number was staggering. Don sagged back against the pillows propping him up, trying to comprehend it. He'd lost a third of a year. How many things had he missed out on? How many events and milestones, what was happening in his friends' and family's lives? What was happening in Robin's life? Robin...

It hit him like a freight train. He'd missed his wedding. He began to feel light-headed and his heart pounded in his chest. His hands started to tingle.

"Don, you need to calm down," Colby urged, alarm in his tone.

_Easier said than done,_ Don thought, slightly hysterical.

A nurse appeared, asking Colby what had happened, and he started telling Don when to breathe in and out. It eventually worked, slowing his breathing and heart down and the anxiety settled down to a low constant level. He could deal with that.

He needed to see Robin. Conveying that to Colby was more difficult, but he quickly figured out what Don was mouthing.

"Robin? You want to see Robin?"

Don nodded emphatically, wincing when it hurt his head.

"What about your dad or Charlie?"

Don shook his head. He just wanted to see Robin. He needed to see her first.

"Okay," Colby reassured him. "I'll see whether they're here yet. Are you going to be okay while I get her?"

Don wasn't sure, but he nodded anyway. If Colby had to find someone else to get her, it would take longer.

While he waited, he tried to grapple with the time frame and what he'd missed. It was like he'd screwed up another relationship—he hadn't even shown up for his own wedding! Not that it was his fault, but he couldn't seem to get a break when it came to relationships. He'd been gone for four months. They'd have to assume that he wasn't coming back, that he was probably dead. What if Robin had moved on? What if she was dating someone else?

The anxiety started to rise again, feeling like a snake was starting to squeeze the life out of him. If Robin left him... It didn't matter that the thought that Robin would find someone else in the four months that he'd been gone was completely unreasonable and something that he knew would never happen, the fear was still there.

The need to see her was overwhelming. If she didn't appear in front of him in the next minute—not that he could tell time, he still didn't have a watch—he was going to go looking for her.

Then Don heard Robin's voice. He tried to call out to her, but his own still wasn't working. Colby came into view first, gesturing to someone out of sight, and then Robin rushed past the curtain to his side, both joy and sadness on her face. He took in everything about her. She'd cut her hair; it was shoulder length, the shortest he'd ever seen it. He immediately missed her long hair. And she was still wearing his ring. She hadn't moved on.

His left arm had automatically gone out and around her, and he pulled her towards him. She rested her chin against his shoulder for a few seconds, both her arms enfolding him possessively, before moving back slightly to kiss him, still not letting go. The kisses were desperate and Don relished every single one.

It had to be real, no dream could feel like this did. Could it?

They paused for breath and as Robin smiled at him, Don realised that she was crying. He gently wiped away some of the wetness with his gauze-covered hand. It was only when she brushed her fingers against his cheek that he realised he was crying as well.

"I've missed you so much," Robin said hoarsely, pent up longing in her voice. "So so much."

Don responded by kissing her again, this time long and lingering. Memorising what she tasted like, what she felt like. When they broke apart he rested his forehead against hers. They stayed that way for several seconds, but then Robin moved slightly away, keeping her hand on his left arm. He was glad she did, he needed the connection, to really know that she was there.

She studied him for a moment, eyes flickering over everything. His hand, his other arm, his face.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

Don nodded, wanting to say, "Now that you are here." He attempted it, but still no sound would come. Robin frowned, worry in her eyes, and he tried to smile reassuringly. He was starting to get worried himself. How long had had it been since he'd spoken? Had he forgotten how?

"It's okay, Don. It's going to be fine," Robin soothed, squeezing his arm gently. The anxiety he could see contradicted her words. "We'll figure it out. The, um, Doctor said that you're going for surgery shortly on your arm. You think you're up to seeing your dad and Charlie before you go? They really want to see you." She smiled. "I think Colby had to go back to stop Alan from following me."

Don smiled as he nodded. He'd missed them all so much, and now that he'd seen her, he was ready for the rest of his family.

"I'll go and get them."

It took everything he had to not protest when she removed her hand and turned away. But then she was turning back and leaning in to kiss him again. "I'll be back in a minute," she promised, before kissing him one last time. She squeezed his arm and then left, glancing back with a smile as she stepped past the curtain.

A feeling that he'd never see her again started consuming Don. It was irrational, unless this was all a dream, but he couldn't control it. He was getting anxious again.

By the time Robin came back, Alan and Charlie in tow, Don had worked himself up into what was almost a full-scale panic attack. His family's presence was a relief, but it was too late to calm him down. Robin immediately pressed the buzzer for the nurse as she encouraged him to breathe, Alan and Charlie too shocked to do much of anything. The same nurse as before appeared, but it took longer for Don to bring his breathing back under control this time. He collapsed back against the pillow when he'd finally calmed down again, exhausted.

"Would you mind stepping outside for a few minutes while I look at Mr Eppes?" the nurse asked.

"Sure," Alan said for them all, after a brief hesitation. "We'll be back in a minute, Donnie."

Don shook his head rapidly, ignoring the pain it caused, feeling the irrational panic rising again.

"It's okay, Mr Eppes," the nurse reassured. "They're not going anywhere, now that we know what the problem is."

"Oh, Donnie." The hurt and love in his dad's words cut him to the core. "We're not going to leave you."

"We'll be stuck to you like glue," Charlie promised, his voice hoarse.

Robin's promise was given by her squeezing his arm.

"Buzz if you need anything," the nurse said before leaving them alone again.

Being hugged by his dad again made him feel safe, like his dad could fix everything that had gone wrong. When his dad tried to pull away, as he always did fairly quickly, knowing that Don wasn't incredibly comfortable with it, Don wouldn't let him, tightening his own hold.

"Oh, okay," Alan murmured. "I'm not going anywhere, Don."

When Don did let him go, there were a few tears on his dad's face. _Chuck_, Don thought when Charlie replaced his dad. _I've missed you, buddy._

It felt real, Don decided, when Robin swapped with his brother and dad, half sitting on the side of the bed, shoulder touching his and her hand back on his arm.

It felt real.

* * *

Walking down the stairs to the basement, Liz noted the dead bolt on the outside of the basement door. It hadn't been hard to find the house where they suspected Don had been kept; the front door had been left open, alerting the neighbours who had called LAPD.

"Dead bolt," Nikki said.

"Yeah, like something or somebody was definitely kept in here." She wrinkled her nose, already smelling vomit, urine, faeces and death. _If this is where Don was kept for the past four months..._

The vomit was near a wall, and almost against the opposite wall was the body. There was a bucket in the middle of the room and the human waste smell came from it. There was also a tray with an empty plate and cup a short distance away from the body. Two cameras were high on the walls.

"Definitely a cell," Nikki commented, having noticed everything that she had.

They both approached the body. The height, weight and hair colour looked right for the owner of the house, Steven Tyson, but the face was too badly damaged to be able to make an ID. The top of the man's skull was also very obviously bashed in and Liz looked up at the wall to find the blood. The amount of damage done took a lot of rage or fear. If Don had done it, he was going to have a lot more to deal with then the issues arising out of his captivity. This sort of violence did damage to the person who inflicted it, too.

They climbed back up the stairs and Liz went to the kitchen, Nikki following.

"Knife missing," Liz said, noting the empty slot on the knife block. It was another confirmation that Don had been there. There was a computer in the bedroom, still on. Nikki moved the mouse and it came off screensaver to reveal a file folder.

"Video files," Nikki said, glancing up at her before clicking on one. There were dozens.

It was clearly the basement and Don was sitting against a wall, unmoving.

"Shit," Liz swore. They'd definitely found where he'd been held.

On the video, Don didn't move.

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you to all the anons for your reviews.

Chapter 5

"Shh. Don, it's okay. You're safe."

Don's eyes focussed on Robin's concerned face and he tried to remember where he was and relax. He'd woken up on hyper alert, convinced that he was still in that basement. It might have been a left over from a dream, he wasn't sure. _This is real,_ he reassured himself.

Robin brushed her hand across his cheek and through his hair before resting it on the side of his face, her thumb rubbing gently against his skin. It was nice. More than nice and almost soothed his headache. His eyes closed and opened slowly. He was still tired.

"You want anything?" Robin asked.

He shook his head.

"Colby and Andrew are going to be by later, with a computer. They want to ask you some questions."

Now that his arm was in a cast, he could use the fingers on that hand to poke at the keyboard. He tried to say "Okay" and growled in frustration when it didn't work. Until he could explain via the computer how he'd been forced not to talk, he wouldn't be able to get help. If there was help. He didn't want to be mute for the rest of his life. He punched the bed beside him with his left hand, too used to favouring the right. Unsurprisingly, it hurt, even through the bandages.

"Hey," Robin rebuked. "Don't try to hurt yourself anymore."

He made a face in apology and looked at his hand. He didn't remember how he'd injured it in the first place. When he was escaping? He didn't—

_He was punching, over and over. The man's nose gave with a spray of blood._

"You with me? Don, are you with me?"

The flashback lingered in his memory and Don shuddered. Was that what had happened to his hand? Were his knuckles swollen and skinned under the bandage from punching his captor's face in?

Don looked up at Robin and tried to smile reassuringly.

* * *

"What have you got?" Colby asked Nikki, leaning against the wall beside the desk. She had the job of looking at Tyson's video files to see whether she could find out what had happened and anything that might help Don.

"I'm really glad that sick son of a bitch is dead, because I _really_ want to kill him." She opened a video. "You want to know why Don's not talking?"

The video started playing. After Tyson's threat, the look on Don's face was one of despair and fear.

"This was three months ago. Two weeks after that..."

Another video started playing. Don was asleep, but suddenly came awake, shouting and yelling at Tyson. There was horror in his eyes when he realised what he'd done and he curled up into a ball.

Nikki opened another video. "Three days later. Don hadn't had _any_ food or water and this wasn't the first time." She was angry.

Don wasn't in a good state and Tyson offered him an option—let himself be beaten up or be left to die. The way he forced Don to nod yes and no to his questions was a humiliation and a way to further break Don. The beating was brutal.

"After this Don was really out of it and Tyson acted all caring, looking after him and forcing him to eat and drink. Unless Don did something he didn't like, then he'd slap Don around or purposely hurt his arm. After Don was well again, he barely moved unless he had to. And then..."

The last video was Don's escape. Don had completely lost it and kept on punching Tyson in the face, long after the man would have been dead. Then he collapsed.

"The head injury," Colby said.

Nikki shook her head. "I think he's been drugged. Tyson would drug him every few days and take him out of the room. Maybe to clean him up, hopefully not for anything else. He was always clean shaven when Tyson brought him back."

Nikki fast-forwarded the video until Don woke up. He reacted in terror, getting as far away from Tyson as possible and vomiting, before rushing out of the room.

Colby held his fist in front of his mouth, horrified and shaken at everything Don had been through. "Okay, so if Don spoke, he was going to be left to die. He's had to live with that for so long that his mind won't allow him to speak now, even though he's safe."

Nikki nodded in agreement, gesturing at the video. "This has been his life for four months. Alone, in the dark a lot of the time. Everything would have to be overwhelming."

Colby was starting to realise that it was a miracle that Don was as together as he was.

"There's other files, going back at least three years," Nikki continued. "At least two other men. The last video for each shows Tyson killing them."

They'd have to search the yard, see whether bodies could be located. The yard had a high fence, no neighbours were in a position to see what was happening in it.

Colby spotted Andrew Toh, Don's replacement as supervisor of the Violent Crimes Squad, and gestured for him to come over.

'What have you got? The acting SAC is pushing me for an update. He wants to have a press conference." The slight disdain in Andrew's tone was fairly well hidden and only something that he'd allowed his team to see in the previous couple of months, finally completely comfortable with them. Everybody had been finding the acting SAC difficult to work with, particularly as the man seemed to be obsessed with getting his name or face on TV. Don had been a good SAC and supervisor, Andrew was a good supervisor—the contrast to the acting SAC was severe.

Hopefully the SAC would remain temporary and before long Don would be back to where he belonged.

* * *

Eating was difficult. His stomach had no idea that he was meant to be hungry. Don had been fed more regularly by his captor at the end, but he was now realising that it still wasn't often enough. He'd been lucky that sometimes a bottle of water had been left for him.

With the cast, he could at least hold a fork or spoon now, and poke at the sauce-covered chicken, moving it around on his plate.

"Don, you need to try to eat," Charlie said after a few seconds of watching Don playing with his food.

Don let the fork drop and typed on the keyboard of the laptop that was sitting off to the side of his tray.

"_Not hungry_," it said aloud for him in a robotic voice that sounded suspiciously like that used by Stephen Hawking. Don had to wonder whether Charlie was responsible for that. He had eaten half the slice of toast and some mouthfuls of vegetable soup, but he'd reached his limit. "_I tried,_" he added after Charlie looked at him, disapproval and worry vying for dominance on Charlie's face. Don tried to change the subject. "_What happened while I was gone_?"

Information was the one thing he was starved for. When Colby and Andrew had seen him, they'd filled him in on some things, after they'd asked the questions they had to ask. Andrew's husband, Luke, who went golfing a lot with Don, hadn't touched a golf club since Don had disappeared. Luke had told Andrew to pass on his best wishes for Don to hurry up and get well, so that Luke could beat him again on the green. David had met a woman in Washington and it apparently was pretty serious. Ian was around a lot and the assumption was that he and Nikki were dating. Liz's hamster had suddenly died and she'd been pretty upset, both at the death and how much it had hit her. All of Colby's goldfish had died suddenly, but he hadn't really been that upset, he'd just bought new fish. Charlie hadn't worked with the FBI since Don had disappeared, other than to investigate what had happened to him. Larry and Amita had picked up the slack. Don's family had barely held it together. Robin had barely held it together. She'd become even more of a workaholic than she had been. The world was falling apart, but that was nothing new.

"Uh," Charlie stalled, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, suddenly seeming nervous. Don started to worry, what did Charlie have to be nervous about? "I've been nominated for teacher of the year, at CalSci, and you'regoingtobeanuncle."

The words were rushed, in true nervous Charlie fashion, and it took Don's brain a few seconds to sort out the mess of sounds at the end of the sentence. When it finally made sense his eyes widened and he sank back against the pillows.

He was going to be an uncle. That meant Amita was pregnant. Charlie was going to be a dad.

"_How far_?" he asked, after he'd gotten his mind around the announcement.

"Just over five months," Charlie said, his voice slightly hoarse.

She'd been pregnant before he'd been kidnapped. At least a month. They'd probably known.

"I wanted to tell you and Dad so much, but we decided to wait until after the first trimester, after reading the statistics. And then..." Charlie had gotten more emotional the longer he spoke and his voice broke off. "And then you went missing. I—I didn't know whether I'd—" Charlie looked away, brushing away tears, "—whether you'd ever know."

Don was shaken. It was the biggest change in the lives that he'd missed out on, and one that directly affected him. He'd missed out on so much. He was going to be an uncle in a few months. At five months, Amita would probably be showing a lot. He couldn't really imagine what she looked like.

"Don, are you okay?" Charlie had leaned forward, closer to him, and rested his hand on the bed. He was worried.

_Yeah, buddy. Just processing it all,_ Don thought. He smiled slightly at Charlie in reply.

Charlie was going to be a dad. To be honest, Don had a little trouble imagining it. Charlie would get so wrapped up in his work that he'd forget about the steak he'd put on the bbq. A child was more demanding and important than a steak. But Don had also not known him ever to not rise to meet a challenge. If it was something that Charlie really wanted to do, he'd do it. An image flashed into Don's head: Charlie holding a baby with lots of dark hair, its eyes wide open and staring at its father, tiny finger wrapped around Charlie's as he told it how perfect it was. _Okay, now I can imagine it._

"_Congratulations, Charlie_," the computer said for him, sounding ridiculously unenthusiastic. "_You're going to be a great dad._"

"Thanks, Don." Charlie leaned further forward, looking from side to side like he was making sure that the invisible people wouldn't hear, and said, "I'm terrified. Do you know how many things can go wrong with a baby in its first few years of life? The numbers are staggering. What if...what if I'm a terrible father?" His voice had gone up in pitch again, it was a confession that he was finding hard to make. "What if I forget to test how hot the milk is? Or how hot the bath is? What if I scald my baby?" Charlie's brow was so furrowed that the lines would be permanent.

"Charlie," Don tried to say, putting his hand on top of Charlie's, wanting him to calm down. "Charlie." Frustratingly, no sound came out. He left his bandaged left hand on top of Charlie's while he used his right to slowly type. "_You're going to be fine. You've got Amita and Dad and me and Robin. You'll be fine. No parent is perfect, you'll learn as you go._"

"Okay. Okay." Charlie took some deep breaths, getting himself back under control. "I'm fine. You're right." He nodded, before sighing and looking Don in the eyes. "I haven't been able to tell anyone else that. I needed you."

"_I'm here, now,_" Don reassured him. He'd needed Charlie, too. A thought suddenly occurred to him. "_Boy or girl_?"

At that, Charlie smiled wryly. "We don't know. It's going to be a surprise."

Don smiled. He liked that idea. "_I want to see Amita._"

"I'll call her now," Charlie promised, pulling out his cellphone. "See when she can come."

Don was going to be an uncle. The ache it caused was both good and bad. He'd missed out on too much.

What else had changed while he'd been gone?

* * *

Robin opened her eyes, realising that she'd dozed off. She couldn't help the yawn that escaped as she tried to rub the sleep out of her eyes. Don had panicked again when they'd tried to leave him alone, ashamed but unable to control it, so the hospital had allowed somebody to stay with him around the clock, while they did more tests and made sure that his body was functioning fine after the partial starvation and dehydration. It was still so hard to believe that she'd open her eyes and Don would be right in front of her. It was a miracle.

"Hey," she said with a soft smile when she saw that he was already awake and looking at her. "How was your sleep?"

There was no reply, not even a smile or a shrug. He didn't move.

"Don?" Alarm started to rise in her. "Don? Can you hear me?"

He wasn't moving, just staring at her. Robin pressed the call button and rushed to the door of the room, frantically shouting for a nurse.

"He—he's just staring, he's not moving," Robin told the female nurse who arrived, feeling herself start to shake.

In very short order she found herself kicked out of Don's room and made to wait. After twenty minutes of mindless panic she managed to gather herself together enough to call Alan.

Then they were waiting together, again, for news, sitting in the hard chairs, holding onto each other's hand for strength. She'd only just gotten Don back. Sure, she knew that he'd been hurt, physically, mentally and emotionally, and that would take time to heal, but she'd only just gotten him back. She couldn't lose him again. Not now.

Robin didn't know what to think when the doctor eventually told them that they couldn't find anything physically wrong. It was psychological, they believed, a reaction to the trauma. Escaping and everything that had happened since was overwhelming, his mind might just need a time-out.

If it was something physical and they could fix it, then Don wouldn't still be lying on the bed, staring at her. She wouldn't have to worry about whether he'd come out of this, whether it'd happen again. Whether she was ever going to get Don—her semi-talkative, caring, loving, kick-ass, FBI Agent Don—back again.

She had his body, but she wasn't sure whether all of him had come back from the hole he'd been imprisoned in.

Late in the afternoon—she couldn't leave, even though Alan tried to convince her to go—Don blinked, his brow wrinkled slightly and he actually looked at her. She was curled up in the chair, watching him, waiting for any sign that he was returning to the real world. She hadn't been able to do anything else, worry stopping her.

"Don?" she asked, bringing her feet back down to the floor, cautiously, hopeful. Alan had bolted up from his chair, newspaper falling to the floor, and rounded the bed.

Don smiled slightly, looking confused.

"I'll get the nurse," Alan said.

Don frowned again and shifted on the bed, the frown deepening as he lifted the blanket to look down his body.

"They had to put a catheter in," Robin explained. With no idea how long he was going to be catatonic and the need to keep him hydrated, they'd had to.

He let the blanket fall and mouthed her name.

"It's okay, Don, just wait for the nurse."

A visit from the nurse and a doctor later, it was ruled that he seemed fine. The doctor had explained to Don what they believed had happened, which had shaken him up. Robin could understand it, she'd feel terrified at being told that she'd zoned out for almost half the day.

When the doctor left, Don desperately pulled her into a hug, clinging tight to her and trembling.

"It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay."

The only problem was that she wasn't sure whether she believed it.

* * *

The man staring at him out of the mirror was almost a stranger. Skinny, no muscle definition, arm in a cast, hand still bandaged. Don hadn't been this skinny since one of his growth spurts in high school. His eyes caught Robin's in the reflection, wondering what she saw when she looked at him. Did she see a stranger instead of the man she loved?

He hadn't looked in the mirror at the hospital, not wanting to know what he'd see. But now he was finally home, even though he still didn't want to know, he _needed_ to know. He'd been about to step into the shower when he'd caught a glimpse of his reflection out of the corner of his eye and it had stopped him.

But it wasn't just the skinniness. His eyes looked different, too. How, he didn't know, but they were different. Alien.

Robin came up behind him and pressed her body against his back, arms around his middle, and dropped a kiss on his shoulder. Her naked skin was warm against his. The arousal that should be there, seeing her naked, feeling her against him, wasn't. It had been over four months since he'd last had sex and it seemed like maybe his body had forgotten why it would want to.

"You okay?" she asked quietly.

He nodded and let her lead him into the shower. She washed his hair first, and it was soothing. Then she started on his body, and it was when the cloth got to his chest that it happened. Suddenly it wasn't Robin with him, it was his captor. It was Tyson who was washing Don, who was naked in front of him. Don jerked back against the cold tile wall, terrified and disgusted.

"Don, it's okay. You're fine. It's Robin. It's me. I'm not going to hurt you. It's Robin." Robin's mantra eventually broke through and he saw her instead of the man who'd held him captive for so long. Her hands were up, trying to appear non-threatening, but she was worried, upset and scared.

Don swallowed, feeling the adrenaline still flowing through his body, his heart pounding in his ears and breathing like he'd run a marathon. His legs were wobbly and he wasn't sure whether they were going to continue holding him up. It was the most terrifying experience he'd had since he'd woken up in the hospital, even more terrifying than knowing that he'd zoned out for hours. Because he had to wonder: did it mean that he _had_ seen his captor naked at some point? That he had been conscious at some point during the periods he'd been drugged? That his captor had done more than wash and groom him? Or was it just the worry about the unknown of what had happened creating a terrifying, but false, flashback by combining what he had seen with what he feared had happened?

"Don?" Robin asked gently, seeing that he was more lucid.

He nodded and tried to say, "I'm okay." Even if the words wouldn't come out, he still had to try.

"Don, you want to wait a few minutes?"

He nodded again. "Yeah." His voice was still absent.

Thankfully the water was still warm, even if the tile was trying to leech all the heat out of his body. That he could do something about; he pushed himself off the wall so he was more under the spray, grateful that his legs were supporting him. With the added warmth, the shaking was losing its intensity.

He let himself settle for a little while more before nodding to Robin. She hesitantly began washing him again and started talking as she did so, telling him all about a case she'd just been reading about that was a possible precedent for one that she was prosecuting. The words kept him grounded and it reminded him of how much he'd missed hearing her talk. Once she was done with him, she quickly washed herself and dried them both off, before they dressed.

Socks were one of the nicest things invented, Don decided, as he walked out of the bathroom. You didn't appreciate them until they were taken away from you.

They ended up on their bed, Robin sitting up against the headboard, a pillow cushioning her head and back. Don was lying with his head resting in her lap, one of her hands resting on his shoulder, grounding him, and the other gently mussing his drying hair, and they were watching "Sullivan's Travels". His laptop was sitting beside him, ready to relay anything he wanted to say.

He'd missed everything about this—Robin, the warmth and intimacy of another person, the safety, watching his favourite movie, the softness of the bed and the tracksuit pants he was wearing. It was precious and he'd never realised before just how much so.

But there was still a tiny part of him, one lonely person against the hundreds making up the rest of his mind, screaming that it wasn't real. It was all an illusion or a dream. He hadn't escaped. He'd never escape.

Don let the movie and Robin's caress drown it out.

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you to everyone for your reviews!

Chapter 6

Looking around the table, a lump rose in Alan's throat. His entire family was seated. Charlie and Amita, and of course his unborn grandchild, and Don and Robin. Sure, Don was still in a cast, his other hand swollen and scraped, and he still needed to put on weight, but he was there.

"I forgot the serving spoon," Alan hurriedly said, quickly getting up and heading for the door to the kitchen.

"There's one here," Amita called, but he ignored her, reaching the safety of the kitchen.

He took a few deep breaths, getting his emotions back under control. His son was sitting at the dinner table and that hadn't happened in over four months. Sure, Don was quieter than normal, but he was there, and that was all that mattered. Time would see to everything else. Alan's family was complete again. Knowing if he was much longer, someone would investigate, he got a serving spoon, bringing it back out with him.

His gaze automatically went to Don, confirming that yes, he was there, Alan hadn't dreamed it. Robin was putting food onto Don's plate, quietly asking whether he wanted a particular dish before responding to the shake or nod in reply, Don's lips moving silently. She finished as Alan seated himself, and he wished that there was more food in front of Don. It was going to take time for him to be able to eat normally again, after being partially starved. The sadness and anger welled up again, and he forced it back down, determined to enjoy his family's presence. Alan served himself and they all started eating. The conversation started out awkwardly and quickly died off to leave them in silence, unsure as to how to deal with Don again, and a non-talkative version of him in particular.

"Talk."

Alan looked up at Don, his brain catching up to what it had already interpreted. It was Don that had spoken. The word wasn't loud and his voice was rough and hoarse, but he'd spoken. There was a clear look of annoyance on Don's face as he repeated it, using his left hand to gesture in the air as emphasis.

It left them all speechless, staring at him slack-jawed, except for Robin. She just gazed at him proudly. Alan had no idea that Don was starting to speak again.

"How can we refuse that order?" Alan finally managed to say.

Conversation picked up again, and Alan was grateful to see that Don was relaxing, nodding or shaking his head at times, attempting to say words, even if they weren't audible yet, even laughing quietly a couple of times, the sound rusty.

Alan was even able to forget, until he was scraping off the plates later, that Don had only eaten half of what was on his.

Don had gone to the bathroom, giving Alan a chance to talk to Robin without him there.

"How is he?" Alan asked anxiously. Robin saw Don the most, being the person who lived with him. They'd all tried to spend time with him whenever possible, swapping work hours around as much as they could to try to not leave him alone much. As she'd worked so hard in the preceding months and hadn't taken the vacation that she'd scheduled, Robin had been able to get a lot of time off to spend with him, other than the hours that she had to spend on the cases that she'd already had.

"Up and down," Robin said with a sigh. "He's still zoning out, although only for short amounts of time, and his mood is all over the place. But he's starting to speak again and the psychologist is happy with his progress. He's eating more, too, although he hasn't put on much weight yet. He's getting there, Alan."

"How are you?" Alan asked, knowing that it wasn't easy for her. There was a tiredness that didn't leave her eyes.

"I'm okay," she lied.

Don appeared again and Alan left it at that. They didn't talk about how this was a strain on all of them if Don was there. Don looked between the two of them and grimaced for a second, probably figuring that he was the topic of conversation.

"Yes, we were talking about you," Alan said. "We're your family, it's what happens when you leave the room."

It got a pout in reply.

All too soon they were leaving, Don hugging him before they left. It had been one surprising thing to come out of the ordeal—the normally physically standoffish Don, at least in terms of large displays of affection to his brother and dad, embraced them each time he saw them. He'd been starved of more than just food in his captivity.

"I love you," Alan whispered in Don's ear, before letting him go, Don giving him a fond smile in reply.

Charlie and Amita settled in to watch some TV and Alan retreated to his 'man cave' as Charlie still insisted on calling it, to read a little before bed. He looked at one of the framed photos of his family, taken before Margaret had to leave them, before they'd even known that she was ill. He and Margaret were sitting down, arms around each other, Don and Charlie standing behind them. They were all smiling, Charlie's head slightly turned towards Don, after Don had said something both funny and insulting. Alan couldn't remember exactly what it was, but he knew that was what had happened. Don had already grown away from them at that time; phone calls to home had been few and far between, but when he visited they still had some good moments in amongst the distance and awkwardness.

Margaret's illness had brought him back into the family fold, and Alan knew that even though she was so sick and then dying, Margaret had been grateful for one good thing to come out of it. Truth to tell, so had Alan, even if at the time he couldn't agree with Margaret or admit it to himself. It all hurt too much to be able to.

But now, he had a daughter-in-law and a grandchild on the way, and a woman who was his daughter-in-law in all but name. Charlie and Don's relationship was good; well, mostly, they were still brothers and all that entailed, and strong, forceful personalities with strong beliefs that were sometimes completely diametric. But they always found a way to move forward, now, without moving apart.

It was going to take time, but Don would recover. And then Alan would get another photograph taken of his _whole_ family to put next to this one. He brushed his finger against Margaret's face.

"It'll be okay," he reassured her.

* * *

It was dark and quiet and Don wasn't really thinking about anything. Thinking was hard, too hard since he'd been sick. All he could do was lean against the wall and wait for his captor to come. Suddenly white light burst from the ceiling, blinding him with its intensity. He lowered his head and blinked away the afterimages, jerking back up when he heard the door open.

His captor was standing in the doorway, his face a mask of anger.

"You spoke," his captor accused, furious.

Don shook his head. No. He hadn't spoken. He knew better than to speak. Panic and dread started flowing through him, pooling in his gut and fighting gravity to rise and drown him. He shook his head more frantically.

"You did, I know you did," his captor sneered. "Now it's time for you to die."

_No._

The door was abruptly slammed shut, the sound as final as a tombstone being dropped into position, the light disappeared in the space of one blink, and he was left in absolute darkness.

To starve and die of thirst.

_No._

There was a gentle glow, coming from just beside him, a soft surface beneath his body, and a person lying beside him as Don bolted upright, wheezing. It took a moment to realise that it had just been a dream, that this was real.

_This is real._

He pulled back the covers, amazed that he hadn't woken Robin, and climbed clumsily out of bed, his legs feeling rubbery. Sometimes Robin woke after or during his nightmares, but not always, particularly as the broken sleep was leaving her more tired. He walked into their en-suite bathroom, flicked on the light and grimaced. It was too bright initially for his eyes. He splashed some water on his face at the sink, feeling the droplets cool and soothe him, pulled the pale green hand towel off its rail and rubbed his face dry. When he moved the towel away, it wasn't just his reflection in the mirror. He whirled around, dropping the forgotten towel to the floor, panicked, his hand moving to his hip—half-forgotten reflexes kicking in.

_No, no, no, no._

There was no one there. The person he saw couldn't even _be_ there. Tyson was dead. Don may still not remember killing him, and probably never would, but he knew that Tyson was dead. Tyson _was_ dead.

He'd imagined it.

His breathing was loud and rapid in the stillness, his heart dancing a ten-mile jig in his chest. He'd broken out into a cold sweat and he ran a shaky hand over his face, clamping it over his mouth to stop the yell or scream that wanted to break free. Only when the urge died down did he let his hand fall.

_This isn't real._

The thought was insidious, always there, but now only ever able to come out to play when he was alone or at night.

"This is real." He ground the words out, his voice still unpracticed and hoarse, needing to hear them, needing to show himself that he could talk and nobody was going to kill him if he did. He wasn't back there. He wasn't. "This is real."

He rushed back into the bedroom, desperate to see Robin, to know that she was there, that he wasn't alone.

_You saw her while you were in that room. It was just a dream and it still is now._

"No," Don denied, finding it hard to fight against what his mind was trying to convince him of. "This is real."

"Don?" Robin sleepily called, starting to sit up. "You okay?"

"Tell me this is real," Don whispered, sinking to the floor beside the bed, driven down by the weight of all his fears. "Tell me I'm not back there."

"This is real," Robin said, conviction in her tone, as she climbed out of bed and crouched beside him. The bottom of her face was shadowed by the bed, the lamp that he needed to be able to sleep on the opposite side, the light from the bathroom too far away to illuminate more than her outline. "You're not back there, you're here, in our home. I'm here. I'm real." She put her hand on his face, warm against his stubbled skin. "This is real."

"I—" His voice wouldn't come and he started again. "I dreamed so many times of escaping and if felt so real. And—and each time I'd wake up and I still was there."

"You're not there," Robin said again. "You're here, with me. This _is_ real."

"I'm—" It took everything he had to say it. "I'm so scared that it isn't. I'm so scared that I've gone crazy and I'm still back there, making all this up. Dreaming it."

He could see his vulnerability reflected in her eyes, his fear and just how broken he was. How much he was scaring her.

She leaned closer to him, the shadows on her face rising to cover it further, whispered against his mouth, "This is real," before pressing her lips against his. Suddenly his arms were around her, hers around him, and they only broke apart for quick gasps of air. Her hand was under his shirt, against his bare skin, brushing against his nipple, and this time the arousal was there, like a white hot flash.

"Bed," he murmured in between kisses, pushing up from the floor, Robin following him.

She pulled away from him long enough to ask, "Are you sure?" and he answered by pressing her up against him again, knowing that she'd be able to feel just how sure he was, and kissing along her neck, hand pushing her night gown up.

Later, his eyes closed, his body spooned against Robin's and trying to fall back asleep, he heard Robin's soft sobs. She was having to cope with so much, to be strong for him. He wasn't the same as when he left her, he knew that. He put his arm around her stomach and kissed her shoulder, hating that this was his fault, that she was crying because of him. Again.

"I thought you were asleep," she said, the tears obvious in her voice. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he reassured her, and she turned to him, burying her wet face against his neck, both of them clinging to each other, needing the other's strength and comfort. Once the tears were done and her breathing had evened out into sleep, he whispered, "I'm sorry I missed our wedding. I'm sorry for all of this."

_And I'm sorry that I can't always believe._ Right now, right this second, he believed it was real. Maybe that was enough for now.

* * *

The look of wonder on Don's face as he held his nephew made Robin smile. The baby was so tiny, with curly black hair, beautiful skin that was between Charlie and Amita's in colour, and his father's nose that was a bit too large for his tiny face. He stretched, tiny fists pumping in the air, opened his eyes slightly, and made a mewl of protest before settling back into sleep.

"He's beautiful," Don said, reverence in his voice.

Amita and Charlie grinned in reply, Charlie pulling Amita closer against his side on the hospital bed. They looked so incredibly happy.

"That he is," Alan agreed huskily.

"How are you feeling?" Robin asked Amita.

"Tired, but okay." She grinned. "I think I coped with it better than Charlie did."

"Hey," he protested, "I did just fine."

"Yeah, you did," Amita said, kissing him gently.

Robin looked back at Don, marvelling at the look of concentration on his face. One of his fingers had been trapped by the tiny hand.

"His nails are so tiny," Don said quietly, before grinning sheepishly at them all. "Robin, you want to hold him?"

She was nervous, it had been quite a while since she'd held a baby, but she did want to. Don awkwardly transferred him to her arms, to a comment from Charlie about not dropping him. He was heavier than she'd thought and didn't stir at the new arms supporting him.

"Robin," Alan said, and she looked up, smiling for the camera.

Her smile softened as she looked back down into the baby's face. The tiny eyebrows were dark well-defined lines, the eyelashes dark sweeps on his cheeks, the mouth pursed slightly. His hair was curly, even though it was short. His nose did look out of place, but he'd grow into it. The tiny fingers and nails were almost impossible to believe, miniature and perfect. She gave into the feeling that holding him, and seeing him in Don's arms, had evoked—she wanted a baby of her own—knowing that the real test of the desire would be later, when there was uncontrollable crying, feeding and diaper changes. She'd see how she felt after she'd been in the room and had to deal with those. Plus, there was still the other issues to take into consideration, they hadn't just suddenly disappeared.

His eyes opened and she smiled again.

"Hello there, I'm your Aunty Robin," she said softly.

His face scrunched up slightly and he started crying.

"Oh, no." She wasn't ready to deal with a crying baby quite yet. Alan stepped in, taking him out of her arms, jiggling slightly and making a shooshing sound as he took the little boy back to his parents.

"I think maybe he's hungry," Amita said.

There was a slight look of terror on Don's face and he abruptly stood up. Robin didn't think he'd been around many breastfeeding mothers. "We'll leave you to it, then."

"You don't have to go," Amita said, but she sounded and looked unsure. It was all new to her, as well.

"It's okay," Robin said, "we probably should."

They said goodbye, to the baby's increasingly loud cry, and Robin, Don and Alan all left. Don's arm was around Robin's waist and she grinned when they heard the crying behind them suddenly stop when they were halfway down the corridor.

"Make you want one?" Don whispered in her ear.

"Maybe," she whispered back with a secretive grin.

When they reached the car, before Don opened the door, he kissed her. It had been a good week, after a rocky one. Don had only had one night with nightmares and he was almost talking normally again. The last time he'd zoned out had been three weeks before. He'd even mentioned the idea of going back to work. And now he had a nephew to focus on.

Robin knew that the nightmares and flashbacks might haunt Don for the rest of his life, but things were getting back to normal, as much as they could.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Wearing the ring didn't feel weird, Don had decided. It felt right. Everything about the day had been right. A bit over a year and a half after Robin and he were supposed to get married, they finally were.

Lying on the hotel bed, right arm propped behind his head, left resting on his stomach, watching Robin get ready for bed—it was perfect. She'd looked perfect, today, still did. He grinned at the memory and Robin smiled back at him in the mirror that she was seated in front of, brushing out her hair.

Finally done, she walked silently over to him, sitting on the edge beside him.

"Come here," he said softly, pulling her down so that she was resting against his chest, stroking his fingers along her arm. He couldn't resist adding, "Mrs Eppes."

She lifted her head, giving him a mock glare. "Don," she warned as he grinned widely, skin around his eyes crinkling. She couldn't help but grin back in reply, even as she spoke, trying to sound serious. "We talked about this."

They had, but he just grinned further to tease her and she hit him softly on the chest before catching his grinning lips in a kiss. She pulled back, long hair falling around his face like a curtain, blocking out everything but her.

"Everything you imagined?" Don asked, hand resting on her cheek, his voice husky.

She smiled, love in her entire expression. "Everything and more."

Her lips met his again, and everything else faded away.

* * *

-FIN-

A/N2: Thank you in advance to the anons who review. Hope to see you all again sometime soon.


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